


we used to play outside when we were young

by anthrop



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Doomed Timelines, Except When It Doesn't, F/M, Grimdark, Hurt/Comfort, Pesterlog, Sadstuck, Underage Drinking, domestic dave routine, excessive abuse of grimdark portmanteaus, tea makes everything better
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-31
Updated: 2012-09-09
Packaged: 2017-11-13 05:39:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/500099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anthrop/pseuds/anthrop
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>TT: After you go, what do you think will happen to me?<br/>TT: Will I just cease to exist?<br/>TG: i dont know<br/>TG: i mean your whole timeline will<br/>TG: maybe<br/>TT: Maybe?<br/>TT: Is there a chance it'll continue to exist, and I'll just be here alone forever?<br/>TT: I'm not sure which outcome is more unsettling.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Rose takes John's death harder than you do. All that means is you hide your shock better, pretend the red smear and his mangled glasses don't make you do more than blink. You swallow pain down deep where it can fester but never break your surface. You do this because Striders don't cry.

Rose takes Jade's death harder than you do. Maybe it's because hers follows John's by a few measly hours, but fuck if you can't open your mouth without your voice trying to betray you on every syllable. Thank god for Pesterchum. You both sat on your planets, paralyzed by uselessness. There wasn't a goddamn thing you could have done. You were in the Medium, and she was still on Earth. She might as well have been on the moon for all you could do for her. It's worse than finding John on LOWAS, because there's never any closure. You never find out if that devilbeast of hers spirited her out of harm's way in the nick of time, or if she really did just die in a charbroiled crater on Earth. Jade pancakes. Jade crepes. Jade a la fuck this Game.

Rose takes John's Dad's death harder than you do, because he did a better job of keeping her from falling apart than you ever could. But he kept you together too. For a few short weeks, he was the closest thing either of you ever had to dad of your own. It was terrifying to have someone care for you like that. After he died, you hid in the ashy smoke of LOHAC and cut down red-hot towers of clockwork until you couldn't lift your arms anymore. You straight up lost your cool because John's old man died in agony. Poison. Some fucking imp got its teeth in his leg and it took him hours to die. Nothing any of you could do. Alchemized mountains of gushers and not one of 'em did any good. Guy like that should never of had to put one foot in the Game. Guy like that could one-shot towering ogres with his bare fists, but he couldn't take burying his only son. Or what was left of John, anyway. It isn't fucking fair, but fair isn't Sburb's deal. Sburb's all about death, isn't it?

Rose takes her Mom's death harder than you do, but by this time that's just plain fucking _sensible_ of her. Ma Lalonde, she was _ma'am_ to you, that's all you could ever manage. She was a goddamn terror on high heels if you ever saw one, all sharp angles with her giant fuck-off gun and her dirty martini slur. She went quick, sure, but she went _messy_. Seeing her, all snapped ribs and ragged meat, hit Rose in every single one of her feels like a ton of bricks all lovingly hand-carved with the message _fuck you rose <3 sburb_. Rose went cuckoo for Coco Puffs after that, and could you blame her?

As for your Bro? Fuck, he walks out one day, don't ever come back. No sign of him on any of the planets or moons. Just _poof_. He left his rocketboard and his shades, and that's the only proof you know he died. You never saw him without those shades one damn day your whole life. No way he'd leave 'em behind if he still thought he was gonna need 'em. You take his vanishing act harder than Rose, but you keep to the code. Striders don't cry. What does Rose do? Well somewhere in all this collapsing doomed timeline asshattery she took up the Lalonde martini glass like a champ, and once it was just you and her left you threw up your blistered hands and joined her. Bro was the straw that broke your back. Bro was the last goddamn camel. You get so drunk you puke up an awful rainbow of gushers and stovetop ramen and jagermeister and hit your head on Rose's tub. She laughs so hard, you almost think she might pull through okay. You think she might sleep easy when you can't for all the seconds you hear ticking by. As long as one of you doesn't lay awake at night, right?

It's about two months into the doomed timeline. Bit more for you with all the jumping around you do. Nana and Jaspers can't abide the two of you stumbling through your quests with bellies full of vodka or tequila or whatever else Rose deigned to pour that morning ("Haven't you heard? It's five o' clock somewhere, Strider.") . Cal, that fucker, just laughs and laughs and laughs, all _haa haa hoo hoo hee hee_ until you could just pirouette off the handle and scream until you wake up from this, the longest fucking nightmare of your _life_.

You quit the two-parts boredom one-part soul-crushing grief drinking, mostly because hangovers on LOHAC, i.e. the only planet without a drop of water to suck down the blasted wasteland that is your throat, kind of blows donkey dick. Rose, without you to slosh around with, just kind of… folds into herself. Like a cardboard box, maybe. Makes herself smaller, with a thicker hide, easier to defend. Her way of shouldering her sadness and taking up the reins again. She acts it well enough. All lording over you with the usual snarky quips and the Freudian psychoanalysis. It's as close to normal she's been since Jade.

Course, she always did love to prove you wrong. Turns out Rose was just on her way to collapsing like a deck of cards.

-

\-- tentacleTherapist [TT] began pestering turntechGodhead [TG]! --

TT: How goes the daily grind?  
TG: its been nakodiles as far as the eye can see on planet fuck my life for alchemizing nothing but suits how do you think its going  
TG: howre you holding up  
TT: I'm staying inside today. Air conditioning is a truly wonderful invention.  
TG: yeah fuck you too lalonde  
TG: so got the squirtle squad out doing your job again  
TT: There's something to be said for a race of intelligent turtles eager to act on my every command.  
TG: only cuz you can be goddamned intimidating  
TG: shit  
TT: Why Strider, I never thought you'd admit your feelings for me. Oh, do go on.  
TG: no wait thats the opposite of what i meant to say  
TT: No take backs. Your rule, remember?  
TG: yeah yeah i remember  
TG: i'm cutting this short before we devolve into tentadick jokes again  
TG: whatever youre typing i dont wanna read it fyi  
TT: Very well. I'll leave you to sweat your feelings out alone. I have a headache anyway.  
TG: wonder why  
TT: That was unnecessarily venomous of you, Strider. You do me proud.  


\-- tentacleTherapist [TT] ceased pestering turntechGodhead [TG]! --

\-- tentacleTherapist [TT] began pestering turntechGodhead [TG]! --

TG: wow must have been some power nap what was that ten minutes  
TT: hxzczcxcghgnkiou  
TG: lalonde  
TT: rtfgfgiukjdfxcfhbjn km  
TG: you leave your laptop open again  
TG: mutini get off the keyboard  
TT: yuhgft32dcv njhyt bvfr vcftyghbvcfcv nhgfd d a v e  
TG: neat trick four eyes wanna maybe stop creeping me out now  
TT: h a h a h a HASHLGDHELp  
TG: rose  
TG: oh fuck not again


	2. Chapter 2

There is a nasty side effect to Rose's sobriety that neither of you talk about when she's got a drink or three in her stomach. Maybe side effect is an understatement. Maybe it's just your way of making light of a bad time.

LOLAR is dark and stormy, right out of a bad horror story. The clouds writhe, the seas boil, both the same ugly bruised color. From far away you can hear Cetus moaning in her sleep. As always, the dramatic change of climate between your planet and hers leaves you gasping, goose bumps running marathons down your skin.

This--the storm, the high winds whipping sand against your shades, all of it--is all for show though. When Rose is in a snit not a drop of rain falls and all the lights go out. Her planet ain't Land of Light and Rain when she's sober. Land of Storm and Grim, maybe. Land of Rose the Fuck Are You Doing Now Jesus Christ is better, though LORTFAYDNJC don't roll off the tongue as easy.

Rose's house-tower isn't far off. You flashstep across the sinking dunes and don't even get your kicks wet. That's totally a cookie for you later. When you reach her island you can see the front door hanging off its hinges. There are claw marks in the wood. Deep ones. Fuck.

You toe the door open and step inside the foyer, drawing Caledscratch from your specibus in a spark of ozone.

"Rose?"

Nothing. Then the chandelier shivers, just enough to make the dangly bits jangle. Upstairs. Super.

You flashstep up the stairs, keeping to the edges. They like to creak when you least want 'em to. Whole damn house is nearly up in arms whenever you show your handsome face around. Wouldn't surprise you if the place goes Disney on you one day, except with less singing and more like the stove trying to kill you when you try to make scrambled eggs with extra pepper. Hell, if it tries it better have a maniacal French laugh or you will be so very disappointed with the house Lalonde.

The second floor landing's carpet is completely soaked with water. It makes an embarrassingly loud squelchy noise under your shoe before you jump to the railing. Wet soles makes it harder to keep your balance, but better a silently comical few seconds of flailing than being overheard. She'll still know you're there of course, but it's the principle of the thing. You know. Style.

The bathroom door is open. You can hear the tub's tap running, and something splashing around. There's two inches of scummy water  on the tiles, and more streaming steadily over the rims of both the sink and the bathtub. Something black is thrashing in the tub, but it's way too small to be her. You tiptoe into the bathroom, sword raised to parry because she's pulled stunts like this before, and--

"Fuck--!"

Mutie is all claws and teeth when he launches himself out of the water and onto your face, and then, too damn late, you realize it is most definitely _not_ Mutie when he starts to ooze down your chest. You grimace, keeping your lips tight so nothing can think about macking on your tonsils without your consent, and peel her little toy off. The Mutie grimclone warbles when you drop it the floor with an ugly splat and completely loses its skeletal structure, just turns into a lumpy blob of fur and four eyes scowling up at you, like _you're_ the bad guy when it just tried to lay eggs in your stomach. Or whatever trick she was trying to pull.

"Neat trick, Rose," you say, wiping water off your shades with the heel of your palm. "Wanna come out and play or you gonna send more creepypasta my way first?"

The house shudders. Outside, there's a mighty crack of lightning that almost makes you yelp, not that it shows of course. Three months of this horseshit has done nothing short of perfecting your poker face.

"Creepypasta it is," you mutter, and, foregoing the balance beam act since the banister has turned into a striped sea snake and slither-flopped halfway down the stairs, you squelch your way to Rose's room.

Apart from a little seepage from the landing, her room's dry as a bone. Just as messy as usual too; knitting all over the place, a dozen or so books out of the bookcase and strewn across her desk, the makeshift sleeping bag slash futon left unmade. One of her writing journals is open by the totem lathe. When you snoop through a couple pages, you see all her purple cursive has been written over in black Sharpie. Nothing legible, at least not to your not fucked up brain. The whole book is like that, easy hundred pages of Zazzerslash lost to her grimdark snit. She'll be so upset, later.

Her laptop isn't there, so you give her a pester.

 

\-- turntechGodhead [TG] began pestering tentacleTherapist [TT]> \--

TG: yo rose can we skip the theatrics for once  
TG: i was hoping we could talk this out how bout it  
TG: you know you cant resist the thought of a good long discussion  
TG: conversation chat powwow you name it i know you want it  
TG: better than a strong martini right you big alchy  
TG: cmon rose i spent all morning fighting ogres i could use a good convo with you  
TG: you you i mean not the you creeping around in your grimskin  
TG: yes no can i get some sort of response here rose  
TG: ill do the spongebob rap again dont test me  


 

The house groans right down to its foundations. You don't smirk, but you want to. "Yeah, figured you wouldn't like the sound of that," you mutter to yourself. Louder you say, "I'll make some of that spicy tea you like so much. Join me in the kitchen when you're presentable."

You squelch back down the stairs and into the secondary kitchen--the one that actually has a damn stove--the fuck do a single mom and a spooky daughter need with _two_ kitchens anyway? You open the correct cupboard and pull out a few tea bags of her favorite flavor, along with the Tentacular Tea Brewer--alchemized out of her plain silver kettle and one of her Fluthulu posters--and a couple of plain mugs. Honestly, you're no fan of the Brewer. It makes an awful shriek once the water's boiling, like the noise a cat makes when you step on its tail, and everything you ever drink from it has a weird aftertaste of saltwater and pants-shitting terror. Not to mention your dream self always hears the horrorterrors whispering a hell of a lot louder, but whatever. She likes it, likes the way it wriggles when she tickle its spout and how you always almost drop it when it tries to hug your wrist. You'll let her have her silly moments. God knows there aren't enough now that it's just the two of you and three planets of mourning consorts left behind.

Besides, Rose's house is classy as hell. Boiling water out of a plain old pot with a cracked handle and a dented lid just doesn't feel right, you know?

There's a few gallons of rainbow water chilling in the fridge for Rose's bad days, because when LOLAR goes grim the sea does funny things to a guy's stomach. And by 'funny' you mean 'fucking awful.' The stove, shockingly enough, doesn't bust out the cutlery collection or the maniacal French laughter, just gutters for a few seconds before igniting properly. You make a lot of unnecessary kitchen-y noises, hoping to draw her out of the upper levels a little faster. You're the only living that that puts up with her horseshit instead of shivering in bed sheet robes; she'll always come to you, now that there's nobody else.

The domestic Dave routine works a lot faster than usual today. She must really want some tea.

The already cool temperature plummets to downright icy, but you only have time to see one white exhale before the ceiling vent explodes with a ghastly shriek of metal and an ink-black smoke bomb. You drop to all fours and snatch up a distressingly floral hand towel to cover your nose and mouth. Something hits the tile with a solid thud as you tie a quick knot to keep your makeshift gas bandana on your face.

Note to self: why haven't you alchemized a real gas mask yet? Fucking get _on_ that, dumbass.

Grabbing your sword from where you'd left it leaning against the counter, you block a thorny tentacle from turning your torso into Swiss cheese. You slice it into three squirming pieces and flashstep away before Rose knows what happens or the ichor can splash on you--nasty chemical burns leave sweet scars, but it's not an experience you're eager to go through twice. You kick the backdoor open, and you're fifteen or so yards away before she's after you, a boiling black cloud of smoke and tentacles with Rose as it's bubblegum center screaming at you in a language that makes your nose bleed and your eyes ache.

You let her catch up to you, and the strife begins in earnest.

Dodge. Slice. Duck. Parry. Slice slice slice. Backflip. Block. Rewind and do it all over again.

It takes a while to wear her down, but you've got the stamina for it. Fighting basilisks and giclopes for months on end just to survive gives a guy that. The white sand quickly blackens and turns sticky as every spectral tentacle she tries to skewer you with gets turned into a prize-winning sushi platter by yours truly. It doesn't hurt her. She definitely doesn't scream any louder when you cut them off at their thickest, nope, not at all.

Eventually, and after a few close calls, you slow her down enough to slip through her remaining tentacles to slash a wound into the ash black center that cocoons her. Her wailing cuts short when you peel back the wet layers and wrap your arms around her. She goes quiet, she goes still, and you hug Rose like both of your lives depend on it. Because they do.

Thirty feet above the blistering black dunes, you fall.


	3. Chapter 3

Your back takes the brunt of it, cratering the sand into a groove that would probably be comfortable if the landing hadn't knocked all the air out of you. In the same instant, her grimcloud collapses outward and rapidly dissipates in the wind. Rose's head bounces lightly off your chest. Soaking wet and shivering like a leaf, she clings to you.

You lay there like that for a while.

"'Sup," you say, once you have your breath back.

"Hi," she replies. Her voice sounds like it's been through a meat grinder and twenty years of whisky abuse, but it's English enough for you.

"Shoulda told me you were having nightmares again."

"You were busy."

"Rose, maybe you haven't been paying attention, but just so we're clear I will always drop having to listen to Calsprite giggling all goddamn day to bail you out of one of your grimconniptions."

"That's sweet of you."

"Yeah, I'm a hell of a guy."

She exhales one soft, exhausted "Ha," and squeezes your shoulder. Then, as if she's commenting on a new suit you'd alchemized, she says, "You're bleeding."

You don't say anything, just eject a pack of Gushers from your sylladex and give them to her to open. Her sharp elbows dig into your chest when the packet rips, and she swears when three orange pieces spill out onto the gray-white sand. She leaves them--which you're grateful for since you'd rather keep the grimjuices out of your insides as much as possible, thank you very much--and feeds the rest to you one by one like grapes. They taste like licking plush proboscises through your own tears, but they heal your health bar quick enough.

"Thanks," you say. She makes a soft _you're welcome_ noise and crumples up the wrapper.

You watch the gray fade gradually from her skin. Her coarse, bone-white hair softens and regains its natural color. As always, the broodfester throes cling doggedly to her eyes, but at last the black, unblinking fish eyes close, and that familiar purple blinks back at you.

With one final boom of thunder, it begins to rain.

"C'mon," you say, "Let's get you cleaned up."

-

She flinches at the thought of a shower, so instead you peel her thin sundress  off and towel her down, all brusque efficiency and most definitely not looking at her nips. You ignore her smug comments and try not to remember when you were little and you and your Bro were caught in a heavy storm, how the rain had soaked you through or how he had dried you off the exact same way.

Mutie finally deigns to make a real appearance once she's dressed (in a thick skirt  and raglan shirt that warms her up and reminds you uncomfortably of Jade). She and Mutie curl up on the couch  like a pair of tangled pretzels, all knees and elbows and purrs. You bring out the two steaming mugs and a blanket.

"I wish you wouldn't do this," she says even as she wraps the blanket around her shoulder.

"Quit hiding shit and maybe I will." You watch her fingers lace around the mug's handle before sitting down beside her.

"I don't do it intentionally." Her voice is still a dead ringer for a Tom Waits ballad, but the three teaspoons of honey you stirred into her mug seems to be helping her talk easier. "They whisper to me when I'm awake now, you know. The fine line between idle chatter and uncompromising rage becomes all but nonexistent after so long listening to Their horrors."

She pauses to drink, running her nails down Mutie's spine with her other hand.

"I don't know why I attack you when I--when I get like that."

"Sure you do."

"What?"

You throw back half you tea, burning your tongue. Heat creeps through your chest and settles with a comfortable heaviness in your stomach. "GrimRose tries to kill me because I'm the only one left with any chance of fixing this mess we're in, and she wants that about as much as I want a sucking chest wound."

"Hmm."

When Rose makes a noncommittal noise you know you're on the right path. So you keep pressing. "I've got to go back, Rose."

" _No_."

This, her sharp and sudden ferocity, puts you more on your guard than any of her grimgames have in the past. "Rose, what the fuck--"

She puts a hand on your knee. "I mean _not yet_. You can't go back yet. There's still too much of the Game to beat."

"Because we're down two players!" It feels fucking amazing to shout. You can't remember the last time you did. "There isn't one goddamn way to beat the Game like this and you know it. We don't have a forge, we can't beat our Denizens, we can't do any of John's quests on LOWAS--shit, we can't even Scratch our session! For fuck's sake, what's left to do?"

Her jaw clenches. "I want to ensure you go back with both the knowledge and strength to guide the alpha timeline to its most fortuitous end. If that means spending three years here, then so be it."

Something obvious dawns on you. You stand up. Got too much adrenaline left in you to sit still long. "You don't want this timeline to end, do you?"

"Pardon me?"

"You're having so much fun playing grimprincess with Oglogoth and Fluthulu and who-the-fuck-knows what else floating around in the Outer Ring that you don't want to stop, even though it is _literally_ driving you bugfuck crazy!"

Rose _seethes_. "How dare you claim I enjoy this Lovecraftian hell I've forged for myself? You seem to forget that we are living on borrowed time here, Dave, and _unlike_ you I can't wave my hands and pop back into the alpha timeline."

"If you aren't getting your rocks off, what _are_ you trying to accomplish?"

She jumps to her feet, spilling Mutie out of her lap and chucking her mug across the room in the same furious motion. She bares her teeth and shoves you back hard enough to make you stumble. "You _idiot_ , I'm trying to _preserve_ myself!"

Oh.

Well shit, aren't _you_ an asshole?

"Hey, stop. Stop." You touch her shoulder, feeling the muscles vibrating under her skin. She recoils, but you sit back down on the couch and pull her down with you. Hugging her is like hugging a mannequin for how much she doesn't relax, but then again you're all stretched out and gangly from a recent growth spurt and unused to hugging yourself, so it's okay. You get it. "Hey, it'll be okay. We'll figure it out. It'll be fine. We'll be fine."

"Promise you won't leave yet. Not until you can't take it anymore."

You almost tell her about the ticking that keeps you up at night. You almost tell her how much you wish you could figure out how to kill Cal so you don't have to hear his goddamn giggling. You almost tell her how many tally marks you've got in your head for every dead Dave you've had to toss out a window. You almost tell her how much you miss your Bro. You almost tell her a lot of things.

What you do instead is kiss the corner of her mouth, clumsily, bumping your nose against her cheek. She relaxes just enough to smirk.

"Good," she says. "Now that we've settled that, I wanted to talk about the possibility of prototyping living things--specifically, yourself once you're back in the alpha timeline. I'm certain everyone will be much happier without Calsprite, aren't you?"

You grin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaand that's it. Thank you for reading my little h/c doomed timeline kiddie Dersecest. It was oddly enjoyable to write. <3

**Author's Note:**

> Doomed timelines are my favorite timelines.
> 
> Title and inspiration taken from "[Little Talks](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ghb6eDopW8I)" by Of Monsters and Men.


End file.
